


Unusual Smissmas

by texastoasted



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: DadSpy, scout: must have got it from my dad, spy: critical hit, spy: wow scout really does not have any braincells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22139302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/texastoasted/pseuds/texastoasted
Summary: Spy has to bite his tongue from telling his idiot son just how ridiculous his obsession with Tom Jones is, but he can't help but realize that it's kind of his fault. He resolves to make Scout's Smissmas better than ever this year.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 96





	Unusual Smissmas

**Author's Note:**

> a smissmas secret santa gift on tumblr !

The sound of the popping cork masked Heavy’s arrival into the kitchen, but Spy could tell he was there all the same. He turned around, eyebrow arched, and offered the opened bottle. 

Heavy had his coat on, a thick, camel-colored woolen affair that swallowed his lower jaw in a mass of fur. He shook his head. “ _ Nyet _ . Am about to take out mail.”

“You are sure you don’t mind?” Spy asked. Heavy always made the walk out to the edge of the base to stock the little mailbox with their outgoing letters, through any weather and any sickness. Other mercenaries had offered to take up the helm, but Heavy always declined. If Spy was in the kitchen, he would sometimes watch Heavy trudging through a snowstorm slowly, his figure slowly disappearing in the raging weather, trekking onwards like a determined mailman. If Spy would hazard a guess, he would suppose that making the trek in the winter was similar to what the Russian had gone through at home, walking many miles in torrential weather to get to the general store. Heavy often laughed at them when they shivered in the height of winter at the Coldfront base. 

Heavy shook his head again. “Enjoy the walk.”

“If you say so,  _ mon ami _ .”

“Hey, big guy, hold up!” Scout shouted as he rounded the corner, sweaty fingers clutching two pristine white envelopes. 

Heavy regarded him with an amused smile. “Letter?”

“Yeah,” Scout answered, gaze jumping back and forth between Spy and Heavy. “Here.”

Spy saw as he stepped forward that the backs were neatly addressed in Engineer’s handwriting. It was the tell-tale marker of another letter to Tom Jones, one that Scout refused to write the address on in case the postman couldn’t read his chicken scratch handwriting. 

“Did Scout remember to say Merry Smissmas to Tom Jones?”

“Yeah,” Scout answered brightly. “I’m hopin’ he’ll write back this year. Got the one from last week, too.”

“ _ Da _ . Sorry you missed me.”

“Naw, it was my fault. Slept in too late. Anyway, thanks.” Scout kept his eyes trained on the letters as they were tucked into Heavy’s vast pocket. The mercenary gave them a formal nod and then shuffled out of the kitchen.

“‘Scuse me,” Scout said, and slipped in between Spy and the kitchen table to fish a can of Bonk out of the fridge.

“You write those every week?” Spy asked. He had seen the letters to Tom Jones occasionally, but had no idea they were that frequent. It wasn’t entirely a surprise, as he would call Scout nothing less than obsessed with the singer. 

“Yeah,” Scout admitted, and sank into a chair. He cracked the soda can and took several gulps from it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I mean, I know he’s real busy and everything. If I just sent one he would maybe forget to respond and then the letter would get lost. So I send one every week.”

Spy opened his mouth to make a snippy reply, but Scout’s earnestness made the words die in his throat. “I see,” he managed. “How long have you been sending them?”

“I dunno. A while now.”

_ Don’t you think he would reply by now if he was going to _ ? Spy wanted to say, but he held his tongue. There was no reasoning with Scout and his Tom Jones fixation.

“Oh shit, it’s almost three. I’m gonna go play cards with Demo,” Scout said, standing up rapidly from his chair and waving a few fingers in goodbye to Spy. 

Spy sat down slowly in the seat that Scout had vacated, fetching a wine glass from the cabinet and holding the bottle he’d opened. He stared into the wood grain of the table. The secondhand embarrassment that he felt from learning of Scout’s hobby was seeping into his bones and making them ache, painfully acute because it was really  _ his _ fault that it was happening at all. Scout was twenty-seven and still writing letters to the man he swore was his father, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement or affirmation. If he’d been able to summon enough courage to just tell Scout about his true parentage, he wouldn’t be wondering anymore, and he could be asking for a new gun or something. Wracked with guilt, Spy massaged his temples with gloves fingers. Telling him wouldn’t be easy, however, and there would surely be a lot of hurt feelings and sour looks that would easily ruin the holiday season. Maybe after Smissmass, Spy told himself, so Scout could enjoy his presents. He prided himself on being a good gift-giver, and with much irritation he settled on the thing that Scout obviously wanted the most, that would make his holiday and probably be his peaking moment for the rest of his life.

When Spy shuffled into the kitchen early Smissmas morning, matching robe and slippers in a dark navy that Heavy had gotten for him a few years back wonderfully comfortable, Engineer was already awake. The smell of frying bacon rose to Spy’s nose, and he stifled a yawn as he accepted a mug of coffee from the Texan. Engineer somehow enjoyed being up early and making sure all of the presents were under the tree just-so. He reminded Spy of his mother.

“What did you get Scout this year?” Engineer asked him, turning pieces of bacon over with a pair of tongs. Spy knew they were both relishing the relative silence before the louder mercenaries they shared the base with bounded into the kitchen. “Package looks real slim.”

The accusation lay flat under his words. Spy took a long sip of his coffee. It didn’t need to be said that Engineer would crucify him if he dared to only get his son a giftcard or something of the like.

“Wait and see,” he said simply.

Soon enough, Pyro led the charge into the kitchen, followed by the rest of the mercenaries in their themed pajamas. The room was a cacophony of noise and enough food to feed a small town was consumed in the span of fifteen minutes. The Smissmass tree twinkled passively behind their smattering of couches and armchairs, patiently waiting for the moment the tree skirt beneath it would be raided of the mixture of wrapped gifts. Spy seated himself on the edge of the couch with his coffee, under the watchful eye of Engineer, who was gazing at Scout rifling through the presents. When he eventually got to Spy’s, Scout eagerly ripped the paper off the slim box. Inside was an expensive, fleece-lined pair of gloves that Spy hoped would stop Scout complaining about his freezing-off fingers loudly and at all hours of the day.

“Aw, shit, thanks,” Scout said, with genuine admiration. 

Pyro mumbled something and tossed a wrapped gift into Scout’s lap, swallowed by the second knit sweater they had received from Sniper, this one adorned with unicorns that the Australian had finally learned how to knit. 

“What’s this?” Scout asked with a frown, turning the package over in his hands. “It doesn’t have a name on it. Soldier?”

“Not me, maggot,” Soldier answered. 

“Just open it, Scout,” Medic told him, casting a smile over Demo’s head at Heavy as he opened a butcher-paper wrapped box, painstakingly patterned by tiny doves.

A letter on expensive, thick paper unfolded into Scout’s hands, and he spent a long time reading it, his eyes growing progressively wider. The mercenaries fell silent one by one, concerned by Scout’s lack of expletives.

“What is it, lad?” Demo asked.

“It’s from him,” Scout said with wonderment, his eyes welling up with tears. “He actually wrote back!”

“Tom Jones?” Sniper asked with blatant disbelief. “I’ve got to see this.”

Scout wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater and handed over the paper. “I can’t believe he actually wrote back!”

“It looks like his signature,” Sniper said in amazement. “‘To my loyal son...blimey.”

Engineer’s head slowly swiveled to meet Spy’s eyes. Spy’s eyebrow raised passively. 

“Oh my god,” Scout shouted, unfurling a rolled-up posted from the slim box. “This is so freakin’ rare! It’s  _ signed _ , too! Oh man, these are rarer than Australium!”

Engineer shook his head and grinned, returning his attention to his mug of coffee. Spy was sure he would be questioned later about the exact lengths he went to in order to extract one of the rarest concert posters on earth from the home of a very begrudging owner halfway across the world, but that was a matter for another time. Scout was happy, and that was all that mattered.


End file.
